Redemption, Chapter 3

[morga...@my-deja.com]

REDEMPTION
by Beck McLaughlin
Methos, Duncan and Cassandra are the property of someone else, alas, and
no copyright infringement is intended. Everything else is mine.
Comments, criticisms and flames can be sent to bec...@umich.edu.

Chapter Three

There was pain, an absurd amount of it. High voices screamed at Methos
from above and every once in a while, his mouth would fill with water.
The choking would start broken bones grating against each other, rip
torn muscles anew. Then he would lie at the bottom of a well of agony
and wait desperately to mend.

After a while, things were clearer. Methos did not hurt quite so much
and he could move various parts of himself, albeit slowly and with great
effort. Eventually he realized that he lay half in and half out of the
sea. The tide was coming in and the screaming came from gulls circling
overhead. It was several more minutes, however, before he could summon
the strength and coordination to turn over and crawl among the
sharp-edged rocks to a higher place.

The sun was near setting, wind changing direction, coming in over the
water. Soaked, hurting everywhere, he started to shiver. Methos wrapped
his arms around himself and, jaw clamped shut to keep his teeth from
chattering, tried to find a place where the slick, lichen-crusted
boulders gave some shelter. Fading light showed him cliffs rearing
above a narrow strip of stony beach. Crowning the cliffs were pines,
their dark silhouettes adding height to what seemed very much a barrier.

So this was it? Was he banished, sentenced to live alone on a frigid
island? Methos had memories of that kind of survival, the basic
man-against-nature war that man (and Immortal) too often lost. One
thing he did know; he could not stay on the beach. The wind was picking
up. Methos tasted rain in it. Further out to sea, where a wall of
rocks formed a natural breakwater, the surf was high and wild. Slowly,
feeling every minute of his five thousand years, he started along the
stony strip, trying to find some easy way up the cliffs. He remembered
what he'd seen from the plane - the wooded valley that lay behind them.
There was shelter there, and the possibility of game.

The sun set and darkness settled over the sea. Overcast, there would be
no moonlight to show him the way. The cold deepened. Lately, his body
had been forced to mend too often on too little fuel; Methos found
himself shaking, his passage across the rocks all the more perilous.
Finally, desperate and not thinking too clearly, the Immortal started to
climb.

His universe narrowed to a place of distant pain and the unthinking
compulsion to move. One hand above the other, his body was a killing
weight that must be hauled from rock to crevice by muscles that cramped
with each movement. Dizzy, there were times when he thought he was
falling; by some miracle, he did not. Time and again, exhaustion froze
him in place, clinging like an insect to the side of the cliff,
distantly aware that the sea crashed far below him and the wind tried
ceaselessly to pry him away.

The east was brightening when, at last, the Immortal dragged himself
over the last, sharp lip of rock and fell flat on the cliff-top.
Something cold and wet hit him in the face. Rain. Methos wanted to
stand, to get to the sheltering trees, but he could no longer move.
After a time, sleep took him and the downpour ceased to matter.

When he woke again, the rain had stopped, although the day remained gray
and windy. He was stronger, but ferociously hungry. Finding his feet,
none too steady, he reached the shelter of the woods. At once, the wind
fell away to a distant whisper among the higher branches. Underfoot,
decades of forest debris cushioned his steps. After a short distance,
the ground began to descend. Footing became treacherous, forcing Methos
to use rocks, trees and the occasional shrub to stay upright.

Halfway down the slope, exhaustion overcame him and he sat, breathless,
against a tree. His stomach cramped. Grimly, he hauled himself up and
continued on. Near the bottom, he slipped, grabbing wildly at the
nearest branch. Wet, slick, it slipped through his trembling fingers
and he went tumbling the rest of the way to the valley floor.

Walk. Rest. Walk. Rest again. Thirst added itself to Methos' growing
list of miseries. He suspected that he was stumbling around in circles.
All the trees looked the same, each hillock, each tangle of creeper.
It was growing late, as well. He faced the prospect of another night
without shelter. Desperation lent him strength.

He found a stream at last, bubbling past him from the high cliffs at his
back. Kneeling beside it, he drank until nausea warned him to stop.
Then he simply huddled, bent double beside the icy water. His patience
was rewarded by a surge of strength that brought him another quarter
mile to an unexpected clearing.

Four small, clapboard houses stood around a scrub-covered square. A
rusted pick-up was parked next to one of them. Beyond, through a stand
of trees was a lake. Methos could see docks stretching into the placid
waters He smelled smoke and roasting meat. This time, hunger cramps
sent him to his knees.

There was a rustling at his back. Methos turned as a man pushed aside
the thicket. Another stepped from behind a tree on his left. Mortals
-- he had not sensed them coming. They wore jeans and plaid jackets of
heavy wool; one had a shotgun under his arm. Hostility was plain in
their faces.

"So, he's here at last." One of them stepped forward, a tall, handsome
mortal, not yet middle- aged. He looked Methos up and down with twisted
lip. "Come on, let's get him up to the house."

They were speaking English, but the accent was not Canadian. Methos
tried vainly to shake off their hands. "Who are you? What is this
place?"

The blow came out of nowhere, knocking him back, filling his mouth with
blood.

"Shut up!"

He swore at them through swollen lips and tried again to free himself.
Jeering at his weakness, they dragged him roughly to his feet and pushed
him into the clearing. Faces peeped from windows. A toddler wandered
out onto the wooden stoop of one house and stood, staring with a chubby
finger in its mouth. A moment later, it was snatched inside by a
round-faced, frightened girl.

"Dane! Charlie!"

His escort cursed, but quietly, and halted. Methos looked around, saw
an old man standing on the steps of the largest house. The party
changed direction as the elder vanished back inside. There were long,
shallow steps of weathered planking to be climbed on increasingly
uncertain legs. A door opened before him and Methos was propelled into
a carpeted parlor.

By the fireplace, on comfortable armchairs, sat two more men and a
woman. All were old, but not, he reckoned, as old as the first. Methos
was flung to the hearthstones at their feet. Dimly grateful for the
warmth, he drew himself to his knees and, head spinning, waited. For a
moment, there was only silence in the room, broken by the crackle of
burning wood.

"He's not what I expected," came a voice, dry as autumn leaves.

"True evil is never obvious." It was one of the men, pompous.

"True evil is whatever suits its purpose, obvious or not," was the tart
response. "This man looks half dead."

"From what Cassandra has sworn, Lucius," came a gentle, feminine
reminder, "t'is no more than he deserves."

The worst of the dizziness passed. Methos lifted his head. The woman
recoiled; the other man swore. Lucius, a man as faded and brittle as
his voice, was unmoved.

"Nevertheless, such vengeance is the Healer's not ours. What occurs
between Immortals is outside our providence." Lucius ignored the
outraged stares and bent toward Methos. "You look hungry."

"Food would not go -- unappreciated," the Immortal agreed faintly.
These people knew about Immortals?

His words were lost in a storm of angry voices, chief among them, the
handsome man. "Her orders said nothing of feeding him!"

In the subsequent exclamations of agreement, the old man lifted a
translucent hand and they were silent. "Gwendolyn? Is there any more
of that stew?"

"Lucius! This is *Methos*! One of the Four Horsemen!"

Gods! They knew about that, too? Where the hell was he?

"You are a fool, Dane, but it is your youth, I suppose." Impatient, the
old man sank back into his chair, supremely unmindful of the man's
humiliated scowl. "As for the Healer's instructions, did she
specifically order that we *not* feed him?"

There was no response, only a tight-lipped glare. The elder cackled and
looked away. Silence fell, uncomfortable. Finally, Lucius beckoned
imperiously toward the door.

"Come along, my dear! He's not likely to bite!"

An elderly woman approached, carrying a large bowl that she gave to
Lucius while staring, round-eyed, at Methos. The old man handed it down
to the Immortal. Murmuring his thanks, the prisoner managed to pick up
the spoon and get the first mouthful in without embarrassing himself.

Strength came back slowly and with it, sharpening wits. He began to be
curious about them.

"Is what she says of you true?" asked Lucius at last.

Methos took a deep breath, denial on the tip of his tongue. He set the
trencher aside and rose. There was a small, involuntary movement away -
all but Dane, who put a hand on his gun and looked a grim promise.

Feeling almost detached -- why did he always think of Duncan at moments
like this? -- Methos again directed his words at the Elder. "Of what,
exactly, am I accused?"

This time, the old man elbowed an indignant Dane. "No! This is not the
Healer's house, Jason. Hold your temper or you can await your prisoner
outside."

The man subsided at once, fuming and directing furious looks at Methos.
There would be trouble from that quarter.

"She accuses you of murder, of rape and torture on a scale that would be
unbelievable should anyone else make the claim."

"And did she say when all this mayhem occurred?"

"Does it matter?" asked Lucius quietly. "Did you atone? Do you think
the price you've paid sufficient for what you took?"

"It was *three thousand years ago!*"

"He admits it!"

The babble rose. Methos thought about making a break for it, but Dane
was at his side, gun prodding his ribs. "I know this won't kill you,"
he promised softly, "but it will make it much easier to get you home."

Lucius finally quieted the others. His eyes were sad. Methos returned
the gaze with stony indifference. The man nodded abruptly. "If you
have finished eating, it is time for Jason to carry out his orders. Do
not return here uninvited; our simple hospitality is not acceptance of
your evil."

"Thank you for the food. It was very good." Great effort kept Methos'
voice steady. He didn't resist when Dane took his arm and pulled him
from the hearth.

Outside, it was raining again. Methos barely heeded it. On the far
side of the clearing, near the lake, a road wound off through the trees.
There was a newer truck parked there. Methos' captors wrestled him
into the back of it, ending his struggles by the simple expedient of
knocking his head against the steel bed wall. While the Immortal
huddled, dazed, they handcuffed him to a bolt in the floor and left him.
A few moments later, the engine roared to life and Methos was flung
sideways as the vehicle lurched forward.

A narrow road, little more than a pair of muddy ruts, twisted through
the forest, eventually leaving the thinning evergreens, descending into
open land. Small fields were bordered by low, stone walls, ending
abruptly at another wall of trees. But these were not the expected
spruce or pine. These trees were oak!

What was this place? From the plane, it had been obvious they were over
the bleak, frigid coast of northeastern Canada. Yet none of what he now
saw around him confirmed that. Oaks, for instance, did not grow so far
north. The fields through which they rolled had been recently
harvested. This valley was sheltered, of course, but even so, the days
were surely too short, the winters too harsh for farming?

The truck rolled slowly through the grove. Spreading branches latticed
overhead, mostly bare now, weaving delicate filagree against a sullen
sky. The sound of tires against the frost-hardened earth, the growling
of the motor disturbed the pristine silence. When they cleared the
grove, there were more fields and more houses, lights twinkling in the
advancing dusk. Once more, the road angled up. Native spruce and pine
returned. Beneath the trees, the dusk deepened and the headlights came
on.

It was now very cold. Methos wondered dimly if the intent was to freeze
him solid. He was shaking when the truck pulled in front of a large,
startlingly modern house. The two men gave the Immortal no time to take
in his new surroundings. Methos was hustled through the front door and
into a spacious, sparsely furnished front room.

Across a floor of gleaming parquetry they hurried, through halls with
walls of glass. They came at last to a cellar much older than the
house. Age breathed out of the mildewed stones. One of his guards
moved ahead and threw open a low door, the hinges protesting.

"You cannot be serious!" Disbelievingly, Methos took in the rough walls
and low ceiling. There were rusting chains bolted to the wall, damp
patches on the floor. But when they pushed him against the wall and
shackled his wrists to it, he realized numbly that they were, indeed,
very serious and that he might be in much more trouble than he'd
imagined.

"God damn it! Where's Cassandra?" he said angrily, loudly, no longer
caring if they hit him or not. "You're all INSANE!"

Ignoring him, the men left, shutting and bolting the door. Their
footsteps faded and Methos was left in complete darkness.

This was truly crazy. He should have killed the bitch when he had a
chance, but MacLeod would never have forgiven him that. For some
reason, that realization made him even angrier. What the hell was he
doing even *caring* what MacLeod or anyone else thought? Survival was
self-interest. This was proof if ever he needed it. The hell with them
all!

Methos heart gradually slowed. His fury faded, leaving him tired and
desperate. The chains holding him might be rusty, but they were strong.
No amount of tugging loosened them; he could not even sit, so, for the
moment, he stopped struggling and waited.

Much later, he jerked out of a troubled doze. The door rattled; it
opened and Methos closed his eyes against the sudden brilliance.

"Methos."

The Immortal blinked, eyes adjusting. The painful blaze was nothing
more than the lightbulb in the hall outside. Two people filled the
small space. One was the man he'd already seen. The other was new, a
youth who stared at him with horrified fascination.

"I'm Jason Dane, Cassandra's estate manager. In her absence, you will
take your orders from me," the older man said.

"Go to hell." Methos regarded him from narrowed eyes. "This is
kidnaping and assault."

"You're on Elwyn Island. We've been here a long time. Under a
one-hundred and fifty year old treaty with Canada, we're autonomous -
sovereign."

"And this isn't against your laws?" He shook his chains at them.

"Cassandra is the law," replied the man calmly.

"Fine. I'd like to talk to that bitch."

The young man growled and reached for the prisoner. Dane touched his
arm. "Save it, Tom" he suggested, and the youth resentfully subsided.
Dane returned his attention to the Immortal. His eyes were very cold.

"You were a powerful once, Methos. You took what you wanted, and killed
for pleasure. You raped and tortured and burned. It's time to pay your
debts."

"I never hurt you," he said finally, stunned at the violence in the
controlled voice. "It was *thousands* of years ago, and, as for
Cassandra . . ."

"Do you deny these things?" Dane cut him off.

Methos clamped shut his jaws and said nothing. The man nodded and
beckoned to the youth. In spite of himself, seeing what the boy held,
the Immortal shrank against the wall.

"How kinky," he managed. "I didn't know Cassandra was into that scene."

This time, the boy got in a blow before Dane could stop him. The older
mortal said something sharp under his breath. Then he reached over and
pulled the Immortal's head forward. Metal locked, cold, around Methos'
neck. He shivered at little as Dane stepped away.

"This is an asylum, right?" he gasped, half-laughing. "An island for
the stark, raving..."

"Tom. I'll take it from here."

"Hey, I have a right . . ."

"*TOM!*"

Glowering, the boy stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Jason turned back and pulled something out of his pocket. Methos' gut
knotted, recognizing the thing -- a taser. It fired a dart on the end
of a long wire -- like a fishing line -- and poured hundreds of volts of
electricity into its target's body. The taser wouldn't kill, but it
would stop a man cold in his tracks by disrupting his central nervous
system. Helplessly, Methos watched Dane point it and fire.

Lava roared through the Immortal's veins. Another shock drove the
breath from his lungs. He hung helplessly in the chains, legs turned
to water. He heard Dane's voice in echoes.

"The collar has a signal transmitter -- it'll alert us if you leave the
estate. For their self-defense, other members of the household will
also be carrying one of these." He brandished the taser. "Got it?"

Methos, through swimming eyes, saw Dane's finger hover above the button
and nodded earnestly. The finger moved away.

"Where's Cassandra?" Methos tried to keep his voice steady. Dane
ignored the question, pulling back the dart.

"You will be assigned jobs while you're here. You'll work and keep your
mouth shut. Insolence, disobedience, any show of defiance will be
punished." For the first time, Methos saw emotion in the man's face.
It was there only a second, but long enough to knot his stomach with the
realization that there was nothing he could say to erase the image they
had of him -- that Cassandra had of him.

He watched Dane turn around and leave the room. The man paused in the
doorway a moment, stared stonily back at Methos. Then the door shut and
the Immortal was alone.
***
end chapter three

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